Droplets
by Cuboid
Summary: In which John dries Sherlock's hair. Short Tumblr prompt fill.


_A/N: Tumblr prompt fill no. 2. Unbeta-ed._

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><p>Sherlock's continuous muttering regularly drew John's attention away from the screen of his laptop and over to the sweating, buzzing detective who was perched on the edge of their worn sofa. His curls stuck to the ridge of his forehead and his blue shirt clung in dark, clammy places. Only Sherlock would sweat in the middle of winter.<p>

"Sherlock."

Sherlock continued to scan the folders and images in front of him, seemingly oblivious to his name being called. John shuffled in his seat and closed his laptop with a click.

He tried again. "Sherlock."

More whispering, more erratic eye movements, more flustering hands. With a sigh, John pushed himself out of his seat and approached him, resting a hand on his shoulder. John's nose wrinkled.

"Christ, Sherlock, when was the last time you showered?"

"Judging by the smell, about eight days ago." Sherlock's answer was quick and absentminded. _Eight days… _

"Right."

John leant over the coffee table and flipped the covers of the brown folders, ignoring Sherlock's protests. Soon the snapshots and words were hidden from view and John was ignoring the dark, relentless glare coming from the man beside him.

"Shower. Now," he ordered, pointing an impatient finger towards the bathroom. He refused to meet Sherlock's eyes – he was more than a little concerned of what he might see there if he did. Sherlock was rigid for a few moments, probably calculating whether or not he would get away with pushing John over and getting back to his 'work'.

Obviously not, as he soon stood, looming over John's short form. Without a word, he stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him. The sound of rushing water followed.

With a smirk of victory, John found his place back in front of his laptop and opened it.

He was only in there for five minutes, but he emerged, bringing the smell of hot steam and soap with him. John looked up sharply, following Sherlock as he quickly marched across the room. He'd changed into a white shirt – the sleeves were rolled up and the buttons were undone.

John subconsciously licked his lips, his eyes examining the areas were the shirt had become translucent. _He obviously didn't dry himself off…_

Still mute, Sherlock sunk back onto the sofa and tore apart the folders, back into his bizarre stupor. The tendrils of his curls gathered small droplets and dripped water over the man's shoulders. John tried to focus on the blog entry he was writing, but his hands clamped themselves together and fidgeted with worry.

"Sherlock, did you dry your hair?"

No answer. Of course he wouldn't answer.

"Sherlock, you'll catch a cold."

Was his presence even being acknowledged? With another sigh of frustration, John arose from his chair and walked into the bathroom, grasping the first towel his hand could reach. He stepped gingerly across the living room, for once thankful that Sherlock was so absorbed in his case.

Once he was close enough, he sunk to his knees and threw the towel over Sherlock's head in one, fast movement.

"John!" He protested in surprise, hands shooting upwards to grasp his wrists. He didn't force them away, however. John scrubbed hard, an amused, soft smile gracing his lips. He tilted his head closer, moving his hand around and capturing the soft curls in the strands of the towel. If anyone else saw Sherlock with a towel over his head, he was sure they'd find it hysterical.

"Letting your hair dry by itself will give you a cold," John lectured, edging closer so he could reach the curls at the back of Sherlock's neck. "Can't have the world's only consulting detective sneezing at a crime scene and contaminating the evidence." John's voice was sarcastic and patronising. Sherlock clearly didn't like the sarcasm and quickly pulled John's wrists away, taking the towel with them.

They both blinked in surprise. With the towel over his head, John hadn't realised how close he had actually been to Sherlock's face. But now he did. _Oh, now he did._

They were close. _So close._ His head, tilted at a slant and Sherlock's, tilted forwards, mussed hair haphazardly in his eyes.

"John," he spoke slowly, deeply, quietly. John swallowed, attempting to dry his throat. He wondered if Sherlock's throat was dry too and he dropped his gaze to it. Long, contoured, pale, slender…

He leapt to his feet, cheeks flushed and heartbeat as erratic as Sherlock had been overlooking the case files. With a sharp nod, he turned and walked stiffly back to his laptop. He picked it up, shoved it under his arm and headed towards his bedroom.

Sherlock watched him leave, hair still distraught.

Sherlock's lips twitched. Then the corners turned down at the edges in an attempt to hide the smirk that refused to be hidden. It gradually spread across his face and his eyes twinkled at the door his flatmate had just departed through.

_Oh, John…_


End file.
